


Bitter Like Coffee, Not Like Your Soul

by KaelsMiscellany



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: . . .How many more AUs can I fit in this?, Brief/past Lydia/Jackson, F/M, Soulmates AU, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelsMiscellany/pseuds/KaelsMiscellany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia glares at the note and revises 'ass' to 'pompous douche'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Like Coffee, Not Like Your Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Pydia week! You kind of snuck up on me there *waggles finger*. So let's see how well I do underprepared and underwritten.
> 
> For Pydia week.

Lydia likes working at Beacon Hill's only coffee shop, when she'd first heard this she couldn't believe it, only one coffee shop? It's just the right mix of math, kind-of chemistry, and social interaction to keep her interested. Though she thinks the aprons could be better designed.

Stiles, the morning shift, gives her a friendly waves as he darts out the door and towards the college campus, the half-there shadow of someone else's soul flaring behind him like a comet tail. Her own is lurking by the steamer, on the lookout for its true self, just like all the others.

The lunch rush pulls her from her thoughts for the next hour or so. When the hubbub dies down to the usual murmur of the few who sit and take their time her shoulder sag and she makes herself a chai. Leaning her hip against the counter she people watches.

Souls flicker in and out of view, testing anyone nearby in the eternal hope they'll find their true bodies. Lydia's never seen it herself, but she's head third- and fourth-hand accounts; there's the pain that's really bliss, the meeting of eyes, and supposedly true love. She thinks that bit's complete and utter shit, if no one can even agree on the number of meeting it takes before your soul recognizes you, some say immediately others anywhere from five to a hundred, then she's not going to trust them with 'true love'.

Her MP3 player shuffles over to a Christmas song, reminding her that finals are just around the corner. With a hefty sigh she finishes off her chai and pulls of her history of war studysheet.

_What could Napoleon have done differently to win the war in Europe?_

_Not invade Russia in the winter,_ she jots down.

 _Why were the Mongol's methods so effective in regards to. . ._ The sound of a throat clearing forces her to look up. The man on the other side is handsome, in a way that makes her think of high school crushes on teachers, and his denim blue eyes are appraising. A burn scar on his right temple intrigues her and she indulges in a brief fantasy of leaning over the counter and nibbling at it; she wonders what kind of sound he'd make if she did. Their respective souls twitch for a moment, but nothing more happens. She tries to hide her blush with the brightest smile she can. “Good afternoon sir, how can I help you?”

“Black coffee, Mexican mocha, and a Jean Grey.”

The last one gives her pause for a moment because it's one of Stiles' off-menu drinks. She pulls out her phone to text him. “Sizes?”

“Sixteen for the coffee and Grey, twenty for the mocha.”

'That'll be twelve fifty please.”

He hands over exact change, and doesn't toss anything into the tip jar, _ass_. Her smile tightens a bit. “Thanks.”

She shoots off a text to Stiles asking about the Jean Grey while she starts the mocha.

Lucky for her he sends a speedy reply. Earl Grey latte, with a pump of ginger, Irish cream, and a scoop of white chocolate. Why is Laura Hale coming to the shop in the afternoon?

Finishing off the mocha she starts on the Jean Grey. Not a girl, older guy. I'd find him cuter if he'd left me a tip. Once the milk finishes steaming she pours it in and sets its cup next to the mocha. Thirty seconds later she's got black coffee there as well. She hands all three over. “Have a nice day sir.”

He gives a snort, though she can't tell if it's disbelief or amusement, as he walks out; she resists the urge to flip him off. Stiles' next text is a welcome distraction. That would be her uncle Peter then, the bane of all baristas. Feel free to spit in whatever you made him, he apparently likes our scorn. He must be trying to play nice with her and Derek.

More customers approach the counter so she slips her phone away. As she makes drinks she wonders what Peter did to earns Stiles' dislike.

Once the flurry ends she picks up her pencil to work more on her studysheet, only to find someone's written in an answer for question two.

_The Mongolian's made such effective conquers because once they'd conquered a peoples they left them alone, aside from a few new taxes and laws, thus giving the newly 'subjugated' no real reason to rebel._

 

_Should a girl as pretty as you really be studying something so blood-thirsty?_

Lydia glares at the note and revises 'ass' to 'pompous douche'.

-

She and Peter don't meet again until a month later, and by then she knows all about him. . .or at least everything Stiles knows about him; small towns were scary like that.

Apparently there'd been a fire ten or so years ago that had killed the rest of their family, the three remaining Hales had only survived by virtue of not being at their home; though apparently Peter had arrive during the fire and tried to save some of his family before finally calling the fire department. Stiles had lamented to her at great length that he had yet to met Derek Hale, the youngest, but he knew the other two well enough to proclaim Laura a saint and Peter a judgmental asshat.

So at least she feels relatively prepared for him this time. She gives him the best smile she can given the circumstances; though it nearly disappears when their souls. . _.dance_ around each other, as if they have to double check the fact that they've meet _._ “Black coffee right?” She hopes he'll say 'yes' and this will end quickly.

His return smile has far too many teeth showing to be truly friendly. “No. Why don't you surprise me?”

Ah, this would be his 'test'; she wondered how disgusting the drink needs to be to scare him off, or if that would just keep him coming. She enjoys causing other people pain, but she rarely does it to complete strangers. “That'll be six-fifty then.” She's scalping him for a sixteen ounce, but he apparently never tips so she feels completely justified.

Peter pays without complaint and she spares a brief glance at her only other customer, still waffling on cookies, before starting his drink.

Since she's feeling extremely petty she ends up trying to figure out how to make a non-alcoholic Stark, Stiles' drink of choice when he wants to get everyone shitface drunk; a drink everyone shoots down with a smile even though it tastes like shit.

Sour apple, licorice, pepper, juniper, a smidge of bergamot, half the cup gets filled with coffee and a shot of espresso and the rest with chai-mix and milk. She hands it over with a gleeful smile. “Enjoy.”

He gives her a salute with the cup and walks out. Her eyes follow him, more to see his reaction to the drink than anything else, but the other customer starts asking if any of the cookies are organic and she's force to look away. By the time she's finally finished Peter's gone; she squashes disappointment. Feeling like she has to tell him, she shoots off a text to Stiles. I just made Peter Hale a modified Stark.

She doesn't get a reply, but Stiles bursts in five minutes later. “I don't know if I should be terrified or in awe. How did he react?”

She shrugs. “I deeply regret to inform you that I missed that part. Another customer distracted me.”

“Well I didn't see I destroyed cup and an ever expanding sea of liquid in the parking lot.”

“He could just be very environmentally conscious.”

A derisive snort bursts from Stiles. “We are talking about the same Peter Hale right?” He darts around the counter. “What didja put in it?”

She rattles off the ingredients and he makes a face. “Well now I feel like I _have_ to put it on my secret menu, I bet I could convince all the jocks to drink it too.” Stiles apparently forgot he too happened to be a jock, Lydia decided to let it slide. “But what to call it?”

“You're the one who came up with the original and actually knows what it's based on.”

He gives the most bullshit-sage nod ever. “True, true. Hmmmm, Serious thought must I put into this one.”

She gives him a shove. “You're an idiot.”

Stiles just goes with it and leans back in to give her a peck on the cheek. “Well I gotta go, I told Mr. Heath that I had to go to the bathroom.”

Their souls give each other a friendly swirl as she rolls her eyes. “I don't even know why I associate myself with a truant like you.”

“Because you love me and I put up with your deviant ways!” Stiles shouts as he leaves.

-

The next morning she's rudely awakened by her phone letting her know she has a text. Her arm shoots out to flail around for it and Prada gives an unhappy old dog _wuf_ , while Erica's cat Persi digs her claws into Lydia's back. She nearly knocks her phone off, but manages to snatch it up at the last second. She glares at the envelope her phone says is from Stiles, debating on whether or not to look at it now. Curiosity wins out and she taps the 'read' button. Apparently Peter's in love.

Abso-fucking-lutly brilliant, give the recipient the Nobel Peace Prize. After she hits 'send' she turns her phone off and for extra measure tosses it onto her laundry pile. She shifts to make herself comfortable, earning Persi's displeasure once more, before closing her eyes; it's her day off damn it.

-

Lydia's regretting that text the next day, because Stiles isn't talking to her, also Karma's a bitch: Peter strides into the shop like he owns it and Erica's there to witness, what Lydia is sure will be, the ensuing train wreck. At least this time their souls stay put. “Hello.”

Over the years Lydia's perfected fake smiles. “What can I get for you?”

Peter grins. “The Saint James please, sixteen.”

“Six-fifty please.”

His hands are hot to the touch and she wonders if he has a fever; she hopes he burns his brain. “Are you wearing perfume?”

She pulls out the to-go cup with more force than necessary, nearly sending the one it's stacked on flying. “No.” But she'd worn some yesterday because it made her feel nice.

“You should wear something less floral and more spicy.”

“I'll take your word for it Creepster.” Without another word she hands him his drink.

He gives another cup salute and walks out. Erica flounces over, soul swirling behind her. “Who's the pig-tail puller?”

“Peter Hale, he's like Regina George but worse. And seriously 'pig-tail puller'?”

Erica smiles. “I just call it like I see it. If you want my not-yet-a-professional opinion I think the guy likes you, he just doesn't have the balls to admit it.”

That gets a snort out of Lydia 'shy' isn't a word she'd associate with Peter at all. And she desperately wishes it'd been Allison who'd been there, because Erica's got a glint in her eye that means trouble; at least with Allison she could've gotten her to swear some sort of BFF pact to never speak of it, she'd have no such luck with Erica. “Well I'm not going to give him the time of day, so I don't need any of your psychological match-making.”

Erica pouts and bats her eyelashes. “Who, me?”

Lydia rolls her eyes and glances out the window, Peter's gone of course. “Is that Isaac?”

Erica whirls around. “Where?” Then spins back around when she realizes her adoptive 'twin' brother isn't actually near the shop. “Ha, ha. See if I do dishes tonight.”

“You could at least clean the litterbox,” Lydia calls out as Erica leaves.

-

As January passes into February Peter become one of her regulars and she's. . .gotten used to him, for the most part. Though she feels that she could make a good argument that they were an excellent example of 'familiarity breeds contempt'. She’d make him a disgusting drink and he’d snip and smirk at her. It felt a bit like dating Jackson again, except Peter definitely has more intelligence than Jackson.

Stiles had eventually forgiven her, and subsequently sainted her for putting up with Peter on a daily basis.

Valentine's day creeps closer and closer and Lydia finds herself scrolling through her contacts more and more often.

A few days before she finally caves, she doesn't know whether to count her blessings or curse him for forgetting his phone again when she gets his voicemail. “Hey Jackson, if you want to get together this weekend give me a call back, mmmkay?”

-

He calls back, of course.

They meet in a nice hotel in San Francisco. She barely let him get out a 'hello' before she's jumping him biting his jaw; she needs to get the kinks out of her system ASAP and she could never stand his gloating anyways. Jackson hisses and slams her into a wall. _Perfect_.

-

Over the weekend they make a valiant attempt to break the bed, she's sure one more night and they would've. But school calls for both of them and she also has work. Leaving him isn't much of a hardship and she does it with a jaunty wave.

Allison corners her in Brit Lit. “So how was your weekend?”

“The sex was still fantastic and I managed to stop Jackson from talking too much, so all in all I have to say it was quite successful. What about you? Did Scott do anything special?”

Apparently he did, because Allison's nearly bouncing in her seat. “He proposed!” Lydia gets a left hand thrust into her face.

Lydia feels a smidge bitter, but she shoves it away. “Congrats.”

“Please say you'll be the maid of honor, I don't think I could stand it being anyone else.”

The smile she gives Allison is genuine. “Of course. . . As long as I get to pick out the dresses. Your eye for color hasn't always been the best.”

Allison pouts but Jacobson calls the class to order before she can actually reply.

-

Work starts out the same as always and when she sees Peter walking up the steps she braces herself and pulls out a to-go cup. “Six-fifty,” she says when he reaches the counter. That's the nice thing about him being a regular, she already knows what he wants and can cut conversation down to barely nothing.

“Hello to you too.”

He pays and she makes his drink. She hands it to him and he takes it. Very deliberately he pulls out a _ten_ and puts it in the tip jar. _Holy shit the world's going to end._ His soul twists as he leaves, what looks like a hand reaching out.

And because not knowing is her greatest enemy she dodges around the counter and jogs after him, cutting him off at the door. “What’s that about?”

He smiles and takes a deliberate drink. “You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough.”

She’s not sure if his tone’s condescension or admiration. Either way her soul gives an annoyed flare. His smile turns into a grin and he gives her a cup salute before turning to leave.

-

The next day she e-mails all her professors and tells them she’s sick, something she’s never done in her whole academic career; but at least she doesn’t have to do the same with work, it’s her day off.

Part of her blames Erica for this fiasco, so she feels no compunction about digging out her roommmate’s ‘secret stash’ of ice cream. She takes a pint of Coffee Caramel Buzz, sits her ass in front of the TV, and watches the ‘History’ channel.

By the end of the day she’s only a bit closer to figuring out what she wants, but is nursing the bastard child of a brainfreeze and a headache, she's sure it would have been migrane-levels of pain if not for all of her chocolate stash and half a bottle of peach schnapps.

So really, what happens the next day at work probably isn't _all_ her fault. Chocolate was dangerous like that, after all.

-

Peter comes in as usual, smug little smile on his face, and her head still aches a little, and he's just standing there in front of her, and she knows she should be making his drink, but all she can think is _why the hell not?_

Which is how she catches Peter completely by surprise when she pulls him down for a kiss.

Her mental dance of victory is cut short though when her headache gets worse; also she suddenly finds herself not kissing a rock.

When they break apart she feels like she's breathing for the first time, and she hates that it takes her a few moments to realize why.

And then it's only because she somehow knows a lot more about Peter than she actually should: like that he enjoyed noir mysteries, and that he actually _liked_ her disgusting-ass drink. “Holy shit, we just. . .”

At least he looks as stunned as she feels.

The soul-shadow behind him is gone, and she's willing to bet hard cash her's is too. His lips twitch. “Well I certainly didn't think becoming whole would feel like this.” He licks his lips and smirks. “Or that it would taste so interesting.”

She pushes herself up and bites the burn on his temple in retaliation.


End file.
